Styx
by Nightfawkes
Summary: Chuck. Casey. 70's rock.


He could hear it from his bedroom. Headset on so he could talk to Morgan, laughing as today's Call of Duty strategy fell apart around them, when the faint strains of sound made him look up.

It was music; which caught his attention. It was classic rock; which garnered his appreciation. It sounded like it was coming from the direction of Casey's apartment; which flat-out intrigued him.

Leaving Morgan to frag alone, Chuck slid out his window and wandered across the patio, skirting the edge of the fountain and skimming his fingers over the surface of the water. It was mid-February, and after several weeks of abnormally heavy rains, Los Angeles was enjoying a truly SoCal kind of day. The sky was a piercing blue, with only a scattering of bright white fluffy-sheep clouds to break up the expanse. The rains had washed away the omnipresent layers of fog that usually lay over the basin of the valley, and there was an enthusiastic sort of freshness to the air.

It had been a quiet week so far. Shaw was in DC, pow-wowing with the mucky mucks, and all had been quiet on the home front. No missions. No arguments. No flashes. And Chuck's work shift schedule had actually coincided with a normal work week this time – which of course meant that Casey's and Sarah's had, as well. So they were all three of them enjoying that most elusive of prizes – an actual weekend off.

In other words, Chuck was in a fan-fucking-tastic mood. A mood which only seemed to heighten as he drew closer to Casey's apartment, and the music which emanated there from.

He paused outside the door to listen for a moment, and began to smile. Everyone knew to knock before entering Casey's, if you valued your skin. Somehow, though, at some indefinable moment, Sarah and Chuck had grown past that. Sometimes they just walked in like they belonged there, like it was their home too. And Casey would let them.

Chuck was betting that this was a no-knock kind of day.

He twisted the knob, and by the time he stepped inside, he was smiling so hard he felt like his face might split. Really, he couldn't help it.

"Casey, what are you… Is that Styx?"

A grunt. "Might be."

Casey sat, barefoot in old jeans that had worn through at the knees. His faded black shirt said "I am the American Dream". His M4 and P229 were disassembled and laid out before him in neat rows of components. He had a rag in one hand, his rifle bolt in the other, and looked positively… content.

Which Chuck well knew was the Casey equivalent of giddy.

His first impulse was to ask Casey if he was feeling alright, but Chuck found himself distracted by a distinctive sound to the music that he hadn't been able to hear outside. His jaw dropped.

"Oh my god Casey… Is this on _vinyl_?"

Casey slid him a long, measuring stare from the corner of one eye. "Might be."

Chuck was swamped with a nearly overwhelming desire to run home and bring his entire vinyl collection of classic rock back over and make Casey listen to every last album with him. Casey had a vinyl record player. A record player!

Instead he flopped down on the couch next to Casey and said, "Very. Cool." There was no rush, now that Chuck knew the option was here. After all, he had a whole lot of albums. And a whole lot of time to spend with Casey. The collection could wait.

Casey leveled a glance at Chuck, taking in the long limbs sprawled so easily on Casey's couch, the head thrown back, the mouth silently lip-synching with Dennis DeYoung.

_Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me…_

Casey ran a thumb over the bolt in his hand, flipped it once end over end, and then handed it to Chuck.

"What is this?"

Chuck pursed his lips, slanting a look at the object through long lashes, and said, "Rifle bolt."

Casey picked up another piece from the table, and tossed it into Chuck's waiting hands. "And this?"

Chuck's grin was back. "Buffer spring."

"That?" A third piece landed on top of the first two.

"Charging handle."

Casey lifted the rag, tore at the edge with his teeth, and then ripped the cloth neatly in two. He handed one half to Chuck and shot him a lop-sided smile. "Atta boy. Now get to work."

Chuck grinned, but was silent as he picked up the charging handle and began to clean it with sure strokes. He had a feeling that if he could manage to stay quiet, he just might catch Casey humming Mr. Roboto under his breath. And who the hell would pass up a chance like that?

Best weekend ever.

THE END


End file.
